


A Touch of Strange

by mystiri1



Category: Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Anal Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-15
Updated: 2010-10-15
Packaged: 2017-10-12 17:12:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystiri1/pseuds/mystiri1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sephiroth had a tendency to make Lazard change his plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Touch of Strange

There were perks and compensations for working for ShinRa that went far beyond the high pay rate, luxury apartment and executive facilities. At least, that was how Lazard Deusericus viewed things. And the biggest perk of his job was the same thing that ShinRa's other executives found the most difficult: working with Sephiroth, General and SOLDIER First Class.

ShinRa was a hotbed of tempers and egos, within which the General was a pleasant oasis of calmness. While most executives within the company seemed to focus only on gaining more funding and pursuing whatever vices they desired, Sephiroth divided his time between training and work, whether that was to be found on a battlefield or within a boardroom. If Sephiroth pursued anything, it was greater skill. Although Lazard supposed it was only to be expected of someone in the military, Sephiroth was compulsive about maintaining a high standard of physical fitness, something which fit his own prejudices about such things neatly: Lazard had no intention of ever being an overweight old man in an ill-fitting suit. Self-contained, meticulous and competent, he was everything Lazard admired.

It took him only a week to decide that the admiration he felt for the eye-catching General was, in fact, physical attraction. It was a small shock for him to realise it as previously he'd only had that particular response to females, but he had spent the past five years living in Junon, where they were surprisingly cosmopolitan about such things. It took him a little while longer to decide to act on it, and that was when it became problematic.

Lazard had plenty of experience with women. It was a fairly straightforward process: a few careful compliments to gauge their interest, flowers, a nice dinner, and then all he had to do was let events unfold as they would. An enjoyable night with no strings attached, sometimes a little more. It was a familiar routine, one he was confident in. It seemed to him, however, that such things should probably take a different course when dealing with another man.

Although it was amusing to picture just what Sephiroth's response would be if Lazard told him that he had beautiful eyes.

And there were further considerations. He had to work with Sephiroth afterwards, and so had no desire to either alienate the other man or embarrass himself. Lazard was greatly annoyed to find something that seemed beyond his ability to plan for, and reluctantly resigned himself to giving up on the idea.

* * * * *

He was a little surprised at how easy it was, in the end. In fact, he wasn't sure the subject came up at all. He said something – it escaped him every time he tried to recall precisely what that was, possibly due to the events that followed – and the next thing he knew, he had one silver-haired General laid out on his desk, naked, with long, elegant fingers wrapped around an equally long, elegant cock.

He was quite sure it hadn't been the most earth-shattering event for the other man, because despite his research about preparation and other such matters, he still seemed incredibly tight when Lazard slid inside him. And that tightness was definitely... _distracting_ , in ways that had Lazard forgetting about anything but the pursuit of physical satisfaction. But if he'd embarrassed himself in that manner, at least Sephiroth didn't say anything. Sephiroth was incredibly matter-of-fact about the whole thing.

* * * * *

After he'd been working with SOLDIER for a couple of months, Lazard picked up two things that nobody had ever thought to come right out and tell him: SOLDIERs' high levels of aggression translated to equally high sex drives, and they had an embarrassingly accurate sense of smell. Casual sex between SOLDIERs was the norm, not the exception. And Sephiroth, as well as any other SOLDIER present when Lazard spoke to him, had probably been aware of his attraction before the Director himself was.

In his more honest moments, Lazard was willing to admit that his own ego was just as great as that of anyone else who'd made it to the higher echelons of ShinRa, and that sometimes, it did cause him trouble. But as it was also the drive that spurred him on, for the most part he didn't consider this a flaw.

Lazard knew that it was bruised pride at just how casually Sephiroth treated the encounter that had him looking for more. At first, anyway. And while Sephiroth might understand the basics of sex, he had very little knowledge about relationships. But ego or not, Lazard enjoyed coaxing the General to spend time in his company between assignments and paperwork. And teaching Sephiroth the difference between sex and seduction was sheer pleasure.

It helped him to feel like he was back in control of things, as well. He'd had many plans when he'd come here: sleeping with ShinRa's prize General hadn't been amongst them. Now that he had, it made sense to bind the man closer to him, try to gain his loyalty. And if Lazard enjoyed himself in the process, that was simply a bonus.

Lazard did enjoy himself. Sephiroth was a pleasure to look at, and while most of his knowledge focused on military matters, keen observational skills and a dry sense of humour made for interesting conversation. Dinner could be a bit expensive, as SOLDIERs had large appetites and fast metabolisms; Lazard learned to choose only the best restaurants, as Sephiroth could take a mouthful and list the ingredients of almost any dish, as well as if they were truly fresh. And there was something quietly satisfying about showing Sephiroth something new and watching him take it all in, even if it was as simple as ordering room service at a hotel so that they could get back to the _other_ activity of the evening.

He'd made progress enough that sometimes it was Sephiroth who sought him out; Sephiroth who lingered behind after meetings to exchange a kiss and caress without the expectation it was going to lead to sex on the desk, but just because it felt good.

That was why, when it happened, he was surprised to be rebuffed so abruptly.

They'd just finished a meeting on troop deployments with several top SOLDIERs as well as representatives of the Department of Public Safety. It had gone well; sometimes the regulars could get quite fractious where SOLDIER was concerned, as there was no denying the much smaller force sucked down more funding than ShinRa's standing army ever received. But there were signs that Lazard's careful diplomacy where smoothing over a few rough patches, especially after several missions where the presence of SOLDIERs had noticeably improved the survival rate amongst the infantry. He was feeling good about the way things were progressing, and suggested dinner that evening, already contemplating the pleasures to follow.

“No,” was Sephiroth's quick and rather terse response.

“Excuse me?” Lazard blinked.

There was a hesitation on Sephiroth's part, as if he was trying to decide exactly what to say. Lazard realised, with a moment's uncomfortable shock, that he'd never actually said no to anything personal before, and wondered if he was taking advantage of his position – except Sephiroth had never hesitated to say no to any number of other things.

“It's Wednesday,” he finally said, in explanation.

“And? Don't you eat on a Wednesday?” The words were teasing, but there was a slight edge beneath it.

“Not usually,” Sephiroth muttered. He tucked a long bang behind one ear in an uncharacteristically nervous gesture. “I have to report to the lab this afternoon.”

“There's nothing on your schedule,” Lazard pointed out.

“It's a routine thing,” Sephiroth answered. “Any time I'm in Midgar, I'm to report to Hojo in the lab for... testing on Wednesday afternoons.”

Lazard frowned. All SOLDIERs were required to undergo monthly check-ups as long as their deployment allowed it. Even if it didn't, a SOLDIER would be recalled from the field after several months for a compulsory physical, anyway. Weekly check-ups seemed a bit excessive.

But then, Sephiroth was more than just a SOLDIER. He was SOLDIER's General, ShinRa's silver-haired legend in the flesh. Maybe it was a way of protecting their investment.

“I'm not usually fit company afterwards,” Sephiroth finished, and Lazard's lips twisted as he realised that, among other things, the General was picking up his own ability to mouth polite nothings and pass it off as a legitimate answer.

There seemed to be more to this than he was saying, but Lazard wasn't achieving anything by pressing him further, so he decided to drop the subject.

Besides, he told himself, it wasn't as if it would kill him to go without the Sephiroth's company for an evening. It was just a minor inconvenience.

* * * * *

It nagged at him throughout the afternoon. Sephiroth had never said it was just a check-up; in fact, what he had said suggested something more, and as SOLDIER's Director, surely he should know what was happening to his General. He got very little done by five o'clock; annoyed with himself, he stayed late to finish some paperwork.

When he finished looking over and approving the last of the orders generated by the morning's meeting, he discovered it was after nine. He shut down his computer and made his way to the elevators. Only when he got in, Lazard's finger hesitated over the buttons before jabbing one that was definitely not going to take him to his own apartment. He was merely checking on the well-being of one of his subordinates, he told himself firmly. Then he'd go home.

When he knocked on the door to Sephiroth's quarters, there was no response.

Lazard frowned. There was no way Sephiroth could still be in the labs; although individuals might work later, ShinRa officially ended business for the day at five o'clock, and most of the lab techs should have finished then. Then he realised he could hear something from behind the door: running water. Sephiroth might have been a General, but he was still a SOLDIER, and none of the SOLDIERs' quarters had the heavy soundproofing that could be found in the executive apartments.

He punched the override code into the lock, and let himself in.

Sephiroth's quarters were surprisingly bare, given what the man was paid. He looked around with interest, but it didn't seem much different from any other SOLDIER officer's quarters. If anything, it was plainer. The only thing that wasn't standard issue was a bookshelf, with an odd mix of titles: several treatises on war and strategy as well as the SOLDIER manual; a bestiary; a book of fairy-tales and a copy of Loveless.

The sound of water, though, was coming from the bathroom, the door of which was slightly ajar. And mixed with it was something that sounded suspiciously like... crying?

As though pulled by a string, Lazard drifted towards the door, pushed it open and froze.

This was... _wrong_.

The first time he'd seen Sephiroth, he'd been wearing his trademark black coat, sans shirt. The man had later confessed he found the shirt too hot to have on under it, and even when he wore a suit, he usually ditched the jacket as soon as possible. But he always looked beautiful and powerful, in control. Even when he was coming apart in Lazard's arms, he failed to look in any way helpless.

The figure who huddled in one corner of the shower, cold water pounding down on his shivering body, was someone quite different.

He wore the kind of paper-thin gown that hospitals insisted patients wear, and it was plastered against him, as was his hair. His body shuddered with each gasping, sobbing breath, and the eyes that turned to him – those familiar green eyes, so exotic and inscrutable – were wild, pupils thinned down to blind, panicked slits so that Lazard wasn't sure he even saw him. The figure in the shower flinched back, cringed away like some panicked animal even as it snarled at him.

“Get out! Go away!” The words held a slightly hysterical pitch, more plea than command, and Lazard took a step backwards as wet, black feathers beat against the tile. One step became two; on the third, he turned and fled.

* * * * *

Lazard unlocked the door of his own apartment and stepped into the pristine silence with no clear recollection of how he got there.

Slowly, he turned to look at the clock over the faux mantelpiece. 9:56 p.m. He should have headed for the kitchen and found himself something to eat, but he crossed to the cabinet and removed a very expensive bottle of Junon brandy instead. Lazard poured himself a drink, and sat down on the couch, staring at the liquid and the way in which it caught the light.

It was some hours later before he finished his glass and headed to bed.

* * * * *

In the morning, he still didn't know what he was going to say when he saw Sephiroth, or how he was going to handle the matter of his intrusion of the night before. And it was an intrusion; leaving aside the fact that Sephiroth had told him not to come, he couldn't imagine that the self-contained General he was accustomed to dealing with would be at all comfortable to be seen in such a state of... vulnerability.

Lazard was uncomfortably aware that a line had been crossed somewhere. He just wasn't sure whether it was a line between himself and his lover, or if it was one that lay within himself.

He sorted through his emails, checked the items on his agenda for the day, and shied away from thinking too hard about the line which read '1100: Sephiroth'.

* * * * *

When Sephiroth arrived, his face was settled into the blank lines Lazard remembered from his first weeks at ShinRa. The meeting that followed was the most awkward they'd ever had. It was like trying to talk around the behemoth perched on the desk between them without ever acknowledging it was there. The subtle flirtations, the casual comments and wry observations of the previous months were no longer present.

Then they were done, and Sephiroth was gathering up the papers he'd bought with him.

“Sephiroth.”

He stilled, then slowly turned. Cool green eyes met his, and if Lazard hadn't spent so much time looking at Sephiroth before this, he probably wouldn't have noticed the small signs that suggested the other man hadn't slept much.

 _That makes two of us_.

“You are... well, today?” As soon as he said it, Lazard was cursing his choice of words, because 'unwell' seemed like an understatement for what Sephiroth had been the night before.

“I'm fine.”

Although the words hardly invited further conversation, Lazard pressed on. “I couldn't help but notice that...” He waved one hand in a vague gesture. “It's gone.”

Sephiroth's right shoulder twitched reflexively, as if remembering the weight of an impossible wing, big and black-feathered and out of place. “Yes.” A pause. “It... went away during the night.” The mask slipped; there was a flash of something in his eyes the Lazard remembered from the previous night. _Fear._ “There's no need to tell anybody about last night.”

Lazard's eyes widened. Did Sephiroth really think he'd tell anyone that he found SOLDIER's legendary General curled up and crying on the floor of his shower? Leaving aside what it would do for morale, it would have been cruel to make such a thing the subject of common gossip, especially now he had an idea just how much Sephiroth was in the habit of hiding. “Of course I won't tell.”

“Thank you.” Sephiroth nodded once, then left.

* * * * *

He'd never actually looked before, just accepted the silver-haired man at face value: the General of SOLDIER, a warrior stronger and faster and so much more than everyone else. In retrospect, it seemed like a glaring oversight. There were no less than five layers of security to pass through before Lazard could access anything beyond the glossy publicity bio the PR department had created for Sephiroth, but that wasn't surprising. What was surprising was that there was obviously so much more beyond his SOLDIER records, and it was at a level he couldn't access. He was supposed to be the Director of SOLDIER; any information about his men should be open to him.

Sephiroth's SOLDIER record held a few surprises. His birth date was listed; with some shock, Lazard realised he was still several weeks shy of his eighteenth birthday. He'd assumed Sephiroth was older than that. It wasn't that he physically looked older, despite the silver-white hair. It was the way in which Sephiroth carried himself, so assured in his own authority, that gave him an air of greater maturity.

But reading through the lists of assignments and promotions gave Lazard a rather grim picture. Sephiroth officially enlisted in SOLDIER at thirteen, as a Third Class, although there were references to missions that had taken place up to two years prior to that. He'd spent a mere six months as a Third, and another five as a Second, moving through those ranks as if it were a mere formality. Going by the figures listed within each of those dates, it was: Lazard had seen enough of the obscure scientific tables to translate it to relative strengths and capabilities. Then he'd made First Class, and continued to climb the ranks of the elite with ease.

He'd led his first major campaign in Wutai at fourteen-and-a-half, capturing and securing a port for ShinRa to use a staging point for future operations. It was that action that bought him to the attention of the public, and by the time he led his second, he was already a General. He'd been present at every major offensive since.

What was completely lacking were all the other bits of information such records typically included: parents, home-town, and anything that suggested he'd had a life before joining SOLDIER. Thinking of those out-of-place dates, Lazard wasn't sure that he did.

The medical section usually held a few notes: some of the SOLDIERs had idiosyncratic reactions to common drugs, and it was noted here, where it would be readily visible, should they ever be treated by non-specialist medics. Sephiroth's was a blank; not even his blood type was listed. There was another file referenced, but it was at this point he hit a dead end, the computer demanding clearances he'd never even heard of before he could read any further.

But Lazard did recognise the directory at the start of the file-path as one belonging to the Science Department.

_“Any time I'm in Midgar, I'm to report to Hojo in the lab for... testing on Wednesday afternoons.”_

Lazard reached for his PHS and dialled the extension for Hojo's office.

“Yes?” an irritable voice snarled from the other end in an appalling display of phone manners.

“Professor Hojo?”

“Of course it is! Who else would be answering my phone?”

Lazard's eyes narrowed in distaste. By all accounts, the head of ShinRa's Science department was a brilliant man. In Lazard's experience, however, he was an ill-mannered misanthrope with little grasp on how to deal with other people, or even such social niceties as personal hygiene. “This is Director Lazard Deusericus of SOLDIER,” he drawled out, as if he expected Hojo to need reminding of exactly who he was.

“And what do you want?”

“Nothing more than a few moments of your time, Professor.” He kept his voice deliberately casual, unhurried. He knew, from the man's outbursts during board meetings, that Hojo hated having his time wasted on inconsequential things, and thought it was a pity the man's abrasive personality encouraged him to do just that. “I understand Sephiroth had an appointment with you in the labs, yesterday afternoon?”

“Yes, yes, a routine series of tests, nothing to concern you,” Hojo said impatiently. Then suddenly his voice changed, the tone sharpening to one of interest. “Why do you ask? Is there something I should be aware of?”

_“There's no need to tell anybody about last night.”_

_Of course_ , Lazard thought, fingers tightening their grip on the handset. It was Hojo that Sephiroth didn't want to know, Hojo that Sephiroth was... afraid of. He laughed at himself silently. Any other person would have thought the sudden manifestation of a single black wing the most startling revelation of the night before, while Lazard's attention caught more on the abrupt reordering of his world-view. _Not everything revolves around you, Lazard. Remember?_ But while the wing was astonishing in its own right, Sephiroth had always been something different, exotic, to Lazard's mind.

Hojo, who required Sephiroth to report to him on a weekly basis for 'testing' that didn't appear to be in any way routine if this was its consequence.

“Not at all, Professor,” he replied, mind racing. Any information he gained from Hojo bore an equal risk of giving information away. “I was merely curious, as he told me attends these little check-ups on a weekly basis when he is in Midgar. That seems a little... excessive, as the other SOLDIERs make do with monthly examinations.”

Hojo made a rough sound of disagreement. “You do understand, Director, that Sephiroth is one of the prototypes of the SOLDIER programme. As such, it is natural that we should take special interest in his physical condition. Indeed, he is the culmination of a greater part of my life's work – not that anyone recognises the achievement,” he muttered bitterly.

For all the feeling Hojo spoke with, Sephiroth might have been a specimen on a slide under a microscope, and not a living, breathing person. Lazard was scarcely a compassionate man – he'd always believed that people were responsible for changing their own circumstances – but he couldn't help but feel a pang of something like pity for his absent lover. While it might not have been written in any file Lazard could access, the truth of Sephiroth's past was becoming clear enough. There was no time before ShinRa, not for the silver-haired SOLDIER that was their greatest weapon.

It was tempting to believe the possibility he was contemplating too terrible to be true, but Lazard had not joined ShinRa because of the company's reputation for good works. Hojo was the kind of man who would enjoy playing god, and Adolphus ShinRa had never hesitated to do so in the past. And what would they do if their prize experiment started showing sudden physical changes?

_I won't tell._

“Hmm.” The sound was deliberately disinterested. “I would like to point out to you, Professor, that we have a very efficient programme on the company computers that handles scheduling and other such matters. I am sure a man of your vaunted intelligence can figure out such things. I would appreciate if, in future, you could clearly mark any such commitments on the schedule so that I do not find myself having to reschedule planning meetings unexpectedly.” Lazard's words were sharp, a little petulant, a little condescending; mild compared to the all the venom and spite that ShinRa's executives exchanged on a daily basis in their constant power-struggles, but insignificant for that very reason. He wasn't surprised to find he could almost hear the smirk in Hojo's reply.

“Yes, well, the President holds my work to be one of the company's highest priorities, so if that inconveniences you, I suggest you discuss the matter with him. Not that it will get you anywhere,” he added with a barked laugh. “Sephiroth's weekly appointments with me are superseded only by actual mission orders. Otherwise, he is mine. Now, I have important work to do. Go back to shuffling your papers, Deusericus, and leave me alone.” The sentence was punctuated with the steady beep-beep-beep of the dial tone as Hojo hung up.

Lazard placed the receiver down, and leaned back in his chair, steepling his hands thoughtfully.

It was time for plans to change.

* * * * *

Adolphus ShinRa had brought Lazard into the company to gain experience and exposure. He planned to have a replacement heir waiting in the wings if – no, when – he grew dissatisfied with Rufus. Lazard had accepted to further his own plans, none of which involved inheriting his father's company. And being placed in charge of SOLDIER was an unexpected position of power from which to carry them out.

 _If_ he could gain their loyalty.

SOLDIER was a tight-knit unit. They were the best, the elite. They faced the most dangerous missions and relied on each other to get through them alive. The modifications they went through set them further apart from others. People assumed that their loyalty was to ShinRa; after all, it was ShinRa that they fought for. After nearly half a year as SOLDIER's director, Lazard knew better. They fought for ShinRa only because that was where SOLDIER was.

They were loyal to each other. And to Sephiroth, who led them, fought alongside them, and represented a level of skill, speed and strength that most of them could only dream of achieving someday.

Lazard had made some headway. He wasn't a fighter, but they did respect him. The Director of SOLDIER was intended to be an administrator, someone to handle the paperwork involved in running the unit, but that wasn't Lazard's way. He listened to what they had to say, treated them as more than ShinRa's special weapons. It was to his benefit, because nobody survived the kind of situations SOLDIERs did without being observant and able to think on their feet.

And Lazard knew the sudden distance between Sephiroth and himself was not going to go unnoticed for long.

He could hope, as his involvement with Sephiroth wasn't exactly secret from them, that they'd decide it was something personal and leave it alone. But it was more likely that very reason would just fuel speculation. He needed to fix it, and quickly.

Sephiroth was scheduled to be in Midgar for a month, before returning to supervise operations in Wutai. And they saw each other nearly every working day. It was hard to say the man was avoiding him, but it was still several days before Lazard found the opportunity to even try. It finally came when Sephiroth was the last to leave his office after a planning session.

“Sephiroth,” he began, then stopped, considering his words. Sephiroth turned towards him. Less than a foot of space separated them; impulsively, Lazard leaned forwards, up, to cover motionless lips with his own.

A startled jerk, an exhalation, and he pulled away. Brilliant green eyes stared at him, bewildered, a little vulnerable.

“You still want...?”

Although he could guess at the content, the rest of the sentence was lost as Sephiroth's lips crashed down on his, hungry, demanding, and Lazard found himself pushed back against his desk. A hard, lean body rocked against him, and he groaned into Sephiroth's mouth, mind fogging with pleasure.

“How long until your next meeting?” Sephiroth asked when they paused for breath.

Lazard craned his head around to look at the clock. “Half an hour.”

“Long enough.”

It was: twenty-five minutes later, Lazard was making use of the small, private bathroom attached to his office to make himself presentable. Behind him, he could hear the familiar sound of Sephiroth grumbling about needing a shower as he wriggled back into his own clothing. Doubtless it was the first thing the General would do upon leaving; he was almost compulsive about hygiene and hated feeling sticky or dirty. Lack of decent bathing facilities was one of his chief complaints when he was in the field. They were usually voiced with a certain degree of facetiousness, but were no less sincere for all of that.

It was pleasant, comfortable, as if nothing had ever happened. And once more, Lazard thought with a wry twist of his lips, he'd avoided actually saying anything that defined this... relationship of theirs in any way.

Clearly, leaving that night had been a mistake. But if he'd stayed, what then? They didn't have the kind of relationship where he'd be expected to stay and offer comfort, did they? Lazard had to admit he was confused as to just what this did amount to, and as Sephiroth's experience with relationships was apparently limited to his involvement with Lazard, it left both of them fumbling.

Except that it did feel comfortable, and it wasn't just his need to win over SOLDIER that had him feeling relieved to be back on more intimate terms with Sephiroth.

“My place, tonight?” he asked.

“Eight o'clock?”

“Sounds good.”

A brief kiss, and Sephiroth was gone.

Lazard returned to his desk to draw up the orders that would see Sephiroth back on duty in Wutai by the following afternoon.

* * * * *

More than half a year passed, and Lazard had to content himself to those brief periods when Sephiroth was in Midgar – and, once, when he himself was in Wutai. They'd launched a new campaign against the southern coast, and there was no doubt that Sephiroth was better utilised in the field; handling the more administrative aspects of SOLDIER's deployment was Lazard's responsibility, after all.

His first thought on seeing Sephiroth in his office was pleasure, but it was somewhat altered by the discovery that Sephiroth was sitting in his chair, with the desk calendar Lazard used pulled close.

“You know,” the General said, watching him intently, “it took me awhile to catch on.”

“To what?” Lazard asked.

Sephiroth tapped a date circled in red. “Did you know that every Wednesday on this calendar is marked?”

“Of course I do. I did it, after all.”

“Yes, you did. Why?”

Lazard shrugged. “I have a standing appointment. Four o'clock, Wednesday afternoon. I circle them to remind myself not to get too caught up in the paperwork; I'd rather not miss it.” He crossed over to the desk, flicked on the screen of his computer.

“An appointment.”

“Hmm.” Lazard tapped a key, and his schedule appeared on-screen. “The Phoenix Day Spa. There's a young lady there who can do wonders with hot stone massage. You should try it sometime. I find it helps me unwind. Very relaxing.”

Sephiroth looked unconvinced. “It wasn't until recently that I noticed something. I've spent a lot of time in the field this year, either in Wutai or on monster-hunting expeditions. It's not that I'm complaining, but there's also a pattern to when I'm not in the field. I've not been back in Midgar for more than one Wednesday out of every month since... that night.”

“Coincidence.” Lazard's tone was dismissive.

“Every fourth Wednesday is underlined.” Sephiroth sounded doubtful.

“I have a longer appointment then.” Lazard sat himself down in the General's lap; only sensible as the man was sitting in his chair after all. And the startled look on his face tipped Lazard's smile over the edge into an amused smirk. “Manicure, pedicure, facial, the works. I find it pays to indulge myself every now and then.” He let his hands smooth over the pale flesh that showed through crossed leather straps, his expression hinting at precisely what he meant by that.

“Lazard, you shouldn't go up against them. Against him. You think Hojo hasn't noticed that his opportunities to run his precious tests have become few and far between? He's not a safe man to make an enemy of. And President ShinRa usually gives him what he -”

A finger across his lips halted whatever else he was going to say. Lazard wished he could say something, anything, to reassure. He could perhaps mention that he had his own 'in' with the president of ShinRa, but he himself didn't believe that would make any difference. The man hadn't gotten to where he was by being sentimental, and from what Lazard had seen, Hojo's research offered something that Adolphus ShinRa wanted badly. It was unlikely that a bastard son who might or might not be of use in the future would weigh at all against that.

So he simply repeated, firmly, “Coincidence,” and set about making sure Sephiroth knew just how glad he was to see him again.

It was really quite careless of him, Lazard thought, to let himself become so predictable. He'd been quite careful not to make any outright enemies amongst the other executives; while they might be 'rivals' in the boardroom, there was no real spite between himself and the other directors yet. It wouldn't do to openly set himself against Hojo. And it would scarcely inconvenience him if Sephiroth did spend several weeks in Midgar – indeed, he'd enjoy it.

Yes, he really needed to be more careful.

* * * * *

Monthly board meetings were a trial at the best of times. The quarterly meetings were worse. But the annual meeting that took place just a week after the end of the financial year was a whole new level of mental and emotional torture, in Lazard's point of view, and this was only the third such meeting he'd attended.

It had started at 8 a.m. sharp, and stretched through the day until almost three in the afternoon. Lunch had been some rather lacklustre sandwiches sent up from the cafeteria, and he'd been drinking really bad coffee all day. It wasn't as if the company couldn't afford to have it catered properly – plenty of other company events had the very best in gourmet foods on offer – but he rather thought it was some obscure form of punishment, much like being forced to sit through every department justifying their financial performance and expenditures to the accountants while President ShinRa watched and waited, like some vulture ready to swoop on the unwary.

Of course, this year he felt like he'd had an unfair advantage. Sephiroth was in Midgar, and thus had been sitting at his side the entire time. And although the General kept his expression carefully blank through most of the posturing and histrionics, it seemed that even the short-sighted accountant who kept squinting at his papers as he took notes could still read the murderous glare in those cold green eyes. Lazard was asked very few questions, and nobody asked him to expand on his answers.

It was a pity none of the other directors got off as lightly, but Lazard had no intention of sharing his not-so-secret weapon. For one thing, if he sent Sephiroth to more meetings with the Finance Department, there was the possibility he might really lose his patience and run one of the annoying bean-counters through. Who knew what that would do to the SOLDIER budget?

The thought had a slight smile curving his lips as he collected his papers, making pleasant small talk with a dark-haired man from Urban Planning. Despite not being a Director himself, the other executive had somehow been stuck with answering most of the more practical questions while his superior made an obsequious ass of himself. It really was a shame that it took more than talent to get someone promoted within the ranks of ShinRa.

“Sephiroth, could I have a word?”

Lazard forced himself to ignore Hojo's grating tones, and headed for the elevator, still chatting away, without looking back.

It wasn't until he stepped inside the glass enclosure, turning to push the appropriate buttons, that he could see what was going on. Hojo wore one of his most obnoxious smirks as he talked to Sephiroth, and Lazard could see the tension radiating off the taller man from here. The General snapped something that affected that smirk not at all, and stalked towards them, lips drawn into a snarl. After a brief consideration, Lazard hit the button to hold the doors open.

Sephiroth strode into the elevator in a swirl of silver hair and black leather, making it suddenly seem much smaller than it was.

“Uh, I think I'll just... get the next one,” the dark-haired engineer – Reeve, Lazard thought his name was – stammered. He darted out the door, and Lazard pressed the button for the SOLDIER floor.

They were silent as the car descended.

“My office?” Lazard asked, when the doors opened, quietly offering his lover a chance to vent in relative privacy.

Sephiroth hesitated, then shook his head. “No. I think I'll go to the VR Room. I feel the need to kill things. Lots of things,” he added darkly.

Lazard shrugged. It was probably better that Sephiroth worked out his aggression there than on his office furniture, anyway. “Dinner, later? We can go get some real food.”

Another hesitation, but this time Sephiroth nodded, his appetite winning out over whatever was bothering him. Those sandwiches had been far from satisfying to Lazard; to a SOLDIER with a fast metabolism and a highly developed sense of taste, they were probably two steps away from chewing soggy cardboard. “I'll come by at five.”

* * * * *

It was well after five when Lazard looked up from his paperwork and frowned. There was still no sign of Sephiroth, and it was out of character for the man to be late. He placed the papers to one side and picked up his PHS.

It rang and rang. Lazard frowned, and just when he was beginning to feel something disturbingly like panic coiling in his stomach, there was a click as it was answered.

“Lazard?” Sephiroth's voice sounded... odd. His breathing was a little ragged, uneven, which Lazard supposed was only reasonable if he was still fighting in the VR Room, but instinct told him something wasn't right.

“Sephiroth, I was just wondering where you are. It's nearly six o'clock.”

“I... can't make it. Something came up.”

“Sephiroth.” Lazard spoke with a deliberately commanding tone. He'd noted in his dealings with military men, both from SOLDIER and the regulars, that it seemed capable of breaking through any level of upset to get coherent reports out of them, as if discipline took over where reasoned thought failed. Indeed, as he understood it, that was precisely what all that training was supposed to achieve. “Tell me what happened.”

It proved to work on Generals just as well as it did on those under their command. Another shaky breath, then Sephiroth said, “It's back. I was fighting, and I jumped to land an overhand strike, and suddenly it was just... there.”

_It?_

For a moment Lazard's mind was blank, but there was only one other time he'd seen Sephiroth seriously upset, and he remembered the sight of black feathers beating helplessly against wet tile.

Only this time it wasn't in the privacy of Sephiroth's apartment.

“I'll be right there.”

“You don't have to -”

“I'll be right there,” he repeated, and hung up.

When he entered the control area for the VR Training Room, he could see that the panel beside the door glowed a deep red. Locked. But that didn't bother Lazard. He ignored it in favour of turning his attention to the many banks of monitors that lined this room. Some screens showed rows of numbers while others were nothing but electronic snow. The last assured Lazard that Sephiroth had already destroyed all the cameras in the room; he'd have to see about having them discreetly replaced, preferably in some way that wouldn't show up on the maintenance budget.

But their destruction didn't mean that there wasn't footage that could prove inconvenient in the future. He typed in a few quick commands, calling up the recordings for the past two hours.

There was Sephiroth - multiple Sephiroths - on screen. There were no less than thirty-six different feeds in total, all from various angles, to allow the VR programme to respond to all movements inside. He watched as Sephiroth entered, his movements sharp, precise. He gave the programme a few commands, and the session commenced.

Despite himself, Lazard couldn't help but watch for several long minutes as his lover cut through hordes of invisible enemies. It was a fascinating sight, seeing that lean body lunge and twist and turn, the flash of the blade as it spun about him in a deadly weave. He was mesmerising. Lazard picked a single feed, toggled the function that would show just what Sephiroth was seeing, and the man was suddenly surrounded by a pack of Nibel wolves. He moved with astonishing speed, his face set in a focused expression that belied the savagery of his attack. The only sign that he was upset at all was the fierce look in his eyes, highlighted as he drew closer to one of the cameras while rebounding off a virtual cliff face. The wolves despatched, he was immediately swarmed by some strange lizards-like creatures.

Lazard blinked. There was no way that number of monsters in such a short span of time could be normal. He checked the settings. Sephiroth had specified the high re-spawn rate, but the individual monsters weren't excessively high-level, at least not for a First Class. Apparently he hadn't been kidding when he said he wanted to go and kill lots of things.

As fascinating as it was, it wasn't what he need to see. He sped the recordings up, and found it nearly an hour in. Sephiroth had ditched his long leather coat by that stage; the quicker playback combined with the quickness of his movements reduced the image to a blur of pale skin, silver hair and black leather. Then there was a sudden explosion of black trailing behind him. Lazard hit pause, backtracked a few minutes and watched it at normal speed.

Just as Sephiroth had said on the phone, he made a massive jump, sword raised high to strike down his target. Hair streamed out behind him as he began to descend with lethal inevitability. When the wing emerged, it was with the same movement: a sudden, graceful unfurling as if it had always been there, just hidden. The sword struck true, but Sephiroth's landing was unusually clumsy. He was half-turned as if to see his own back, an expression of horror dawning on his features.

Another monster leapt towards him and Lazard tensed, but Masamune swept out almost automatically, slicing it clean in two. Sephiroth barely seemed to have noticed. He stood statue still as the wing flexed, then he blurred into movement. One by one the camera feeds disappeared into static with startling rapidity.

Lazard stared at the screen a moment longer, then exited to the directory. Deletion of the files wouldn't be enough to prevent recovery. Scrolling through the other video records available, he selected one from a time in which the room should have been empty, and copied it over the afternoon's recordings.

Then he crossed to the VR Room's door, and entered the override code.

Sephiroth stood in the centre of the room, sword still held on one hand. Perhaps, if he'd been in a slightly different pose, he'd have been mistaken for a statue; but the sword angled down toward the floor, shoulders slumped just a little, the head bowed. It wasn't the kind heroic or triumphant stance such monuments favoured, and as Lazard drew near, he could see the faint tremors that racked the otherwise still frame.

“Come to stare at the freak?” Sephiroth didn't turn or even raise his head as he spoke, the words harsh, bitter.

“No, I came to stare at you,” Lazard calmly returned. “I think it's a good thing you're usually wearing a few more clothes during meetings, or I'd spend all my time doing that, and never get any work done.”

Sephiroth whirled. “Is that some kind of sick joke?” he hissed. “Look at me!”

“I am.” Lazard stepped closer, circling around until he was standing behind him and reached a hand out to touch black feathers. They jerked away from his questing fingers; undeterred, he reached out again. This time he could feel the tension running through the new appendage almost before he touched warm softness, a tangible vibration that could be felt about him like an aura. “And if you're finished with the melodrama, then perhaps we can move on to dealing with the situation like calm, rational adults.”

He knew from the sharp, indrawn breath he heard that the deliberately insulting words bit deep. And when Sephiroth spoke, he could hear the edge beneath the controlled tones. “And what do you suggest we should do?”

Lazard's hand stroked over sleek feathers. “It seems to me we should do our best to understand exactly what it is we're dealing with.” It was difficult to pull his hand away. “I saw the footage, and it looked as if, for a moment, you were flying. That shouldn't be possible, not with only one wing.”

“It might have only been the force with which I pushed off to jump,” Sephiroth pointed out.

“Then try.” Lazard stepped back.

The wing unfurled, revealing it to be at least as long as Sephiroth was tall. It made sense, Lazard supposed, as it would require a prodigious wingspan to support a full-grown man in flight. Except Sephiroth was much taller than an average man, and about three times heavier than his lean frame suggested due to the extreme density of his enhanced musculature and bones. Even with two wings, lifting such a weight should have been impossible.

It flapped, a little awkwardly, but nothing happened. Sephiroth glanced back at him. “I feel ridiculous.”

“Try jumping to give yourself a bit of a boost.”

There was some muttered remark that he didn't catch – it sounded like it was probably quite impolite, anyway - but Sephiroth bent his knees and pushed off from the ground. That minor effort carried him nearly three metres straight up, and Lazard was ready to accept that it was just momentum that had caused it to seem as if he were flying earlier. Then the outstretched wing caught at the air, angling slightly as it beat downwards, and Sephiroth hovered above him. Wind buffeted Lazard, and he looked up, moving until he could see Sephiroth's face. He still looked a little... disturbed.

“Well? Can you do anything besides hover?”

Sephiroth scowled, but his face was set in determined lines as he suddenly leaned forward, gliding towards the far wall. Just when it looked liked he'd collide with it, the wing dipped and he turned sharply. Another beat of the wing, and he was almost across the room again. This time he turned to the left, and Lazard's eyes narrowed in speculation. He back-winged and came to rest lightly on the floor before the blond.

One eyebrow rose challengingly.

Lazard bit back a smile. “Do you mind if I take a closer look?”

“Didn't you do that already?”

“Not really.”

Sephiroth shrugged, the wing mimicking the movement slightly before settling behind him. He turned and presented his back with seeming indifference.

For a moment Lazard just stared. Folded back as it currently was, it once again seemed smaller. The long flight pinions at the tip tucked under until they were almost brushing the opposite ankle. The smooth fall of silver hair down the centre of Sephiroth's back narrowed slightly when it reached a point just below his shoulders, pushed aside by the bulk of the wing, but oddly, it narrowed at both sides.

As if there was another wing there, one that couldn't be seen.

Carefully, Lazard lifted the long hair and draped it forward over Sephiroth's shoulder. He had to rise on his toes to do so, and he stifled a sigh at the reminder of how much taller his lover was – sometimes he still found it strange that he had to reach upwards for a kiss, something he'd never had to do before. But it put him at the perfect height to examine the place where Sephiroth's wing joined his back, black feathers over warm flesh merging seamlessly into the curve of his shoulder-blade.

And apparently growing right through the combat harness that Sephiroth had never bothered to remove.

Lazard swallowed. That was... disturbing. Did Sephiroth know?

He slipped a cautious finger beneath the strap in question, and slid it upwards, tugging a little. It pulled free as if there was nothing obstructing it; the wing showed no signs that it had ever been anything less than whole and intact. When he released it, the strap rested against the wing so that he doubted what he'd originally seen, but Sephiroth twitched as if he found it uncomfortable.

“Will you take your harness off?”

Sephiroth released the catches that held the straps to the SOLDIER-issue armoured belt he wore, then removed that as well, so that only his leather pants and boots remained. Lazard tried not to let that fact distract him. He turned his attention back to Sephiroth's left shoulder, the one that was – supposedly – wing-free.

An outstretched hand encountered some resistance before he neared actual skin. Lazard pushed against it, but Sephiroth didn't react. It didn't feel solid, not really; it was more like a thickening in the air, and as he pressed forward, his palm tingled oddly. He pulled back a little.

“Sephiroth, can you extend your wing?”

Obediently, the wing stretched out to the side, and Lazard could feel the rush of air against his hand, as if something had moved nearby. He reached forward again, and this time, continued to press onwards, directly over the place where wing met back on the opposite shoulder. An odd shiver ran through Sephiroth just before he touched flesh.

“What are you doing?”

“Just checking.” He moved his other hand up, feeling the contrast between smooth flesh and feathers. He trailed his fingers over the place where they joined. The feathers there were down-soft and Sephiroth shuddered, a small, helpless sound escaping him. Lazard's lips curved knowingly. Sephiroth was very responsive to any touch on his back. The expanse of skin usually hidden by his hair, and he was loath to allow others to touch the silver length; Lazard knew he took liberties that Sephiroth had never allowed his other lovers. He leaned forward, pressing his lips to the other man's spine.

“And I suppose,” Sephiroth said huskily, “that that's just checking, too?”

“Hmm.” Lazard turned his head and inhaled deeply. He could smell the scent of male and leather, along with sweat from Sephiroth's earlier workout. But there was something else, something fresh and crisp and... _green_. He couldn't immediately place it, because there were no trees growing in Midgar, only the scraggly potted shrubs that Maintenance struggle to keep from dying in the reception areas. It smelt like forests and tree sap, and as he brushed his cheek lightly against feathers, it grew stronger.

He knew Sephiroth, like most SOLDIERs, used unscented toiletries, and he'd started doing the same in deference to his men's acute sense of smell. There was only one possible source.

He let one arm slip around Sephiroth's waist and watched as his fingers trailed along the edge of the wing.

“You're worried it's some kind of physical deformity or mutation, correct?”

“With the number of chemicals Hojo's pumped into me other the years, it wouldn't be unexpected,” Sephiroth said roughly. “And mutation is... one of the signs that a SOLDIER is becoming unstable.”

“I don't think you have to worry. It doesn't seem to be physical at all. I think it's a manifestation of some kind of magic.”

Sephiroth twisted around, dislodging his grip. “What?”

“Magic. You remember I said you shouldn't be able to fly with one wing? It's like there's another one there, only we can't see it. Or touch it, really. This one - even though we can see it and touch it, I'm not sure it's really there either. At least, not in every sense. Last time, were there any holes in the clothes you were wearing? That hospital-gown outfit.”

Sephiroth blinked at him uncomprehendingly. “The clothes... no. The gown was fine when I woke up.”

“But the wing should have gone right through it. And it did, but without ripping it. Just as I expect your coat would still be intact if you were wearing it now. Because it's not physical.”

“Magic.”

“Hmm. Right now, you smell like trees.” Lazard smiled. “And feathers, too, of course.”

“If you're going to imply I smell like a chocobo...” Sephiroth growled, but Lazard could see the tension easing from him.

“Not like a chocobo. At least, not any chocobo I've ever come across.” He tilted his head to one side. “I'm quite sure having these kinds of thought about chocobos is... _questionable_ , at the very least.”

An amused snort. “You have a one-track mind.”

“We have time to kill. I'm not sure what caused it, but if it's magic, it will eventually wear off, just as I assume it did last time.”

“It was gone when I woke up.”

Lazard frowned. “You didn't fall asleep in that shower, did you?”

“If we're going to kill time doing that, you're wearing too many clothes,” Sephiroth pointed out, avoiding the question, which Lazard supposed was an answer in itself.

“So are you, although I assure you I have noticed the ones you're missing.” He swept an appreciative gaze over the General's exposed torso. And as there seemed to be no reason not to, followed it up by doing the same with his hands.

Sephiroth captured one wrist, halting his explorations. “You still want me even when I'm... like this?”

“Idiot. Yes.” He reversed the grip, guiding Sephiroth's hand downward, swallowing hard as it brushed against his cock, trapped behind the fabric of his pants. Sephiroth need no further encouragement, working at the flesh through the dense fabric. The blond tipped his head back, rocking into it heedlessly.

“Too many clothes,” Sephiroth repeated, and when he released his hold on Lazard's groin it was only to start removing them, beginning with the executive's business jacket and shirt.

Lazard objected when he was down to his underwear. “I'm not the only one still dressed, here.”

Sephiroth stepped back, and began to remedy that. “Stupid boots,” he growled, as they proved recalcitrant.

“I like those boots,” Lazard protested. “One of these days, I want to fuck you while you're wearing them, and nothing else.”

Sephiroth snorted. “You're such a pervert.”

“Are you complaining?”

“You realise I have to take the boots off to remove my pants?” he pointed out as he did just that. “I'd have to put them back on afterwards.”

“It would be worth it,” Lazard insisted. “But not today.” He stepped out of his boxers, tossing them on top of the pile Sephiroth had made. Then it was skin against skin, rising to meet the lips that descended upon his.

A low moan escaped him as their bodies rubbed against each other. Sephiroth's hands slid over his ass, lifting him a little, rocking them together. Lazard relaxed into his grasp, unbothered by the casual display of strength, choosing instead to let his own hands trail over smooth skin. They moved to his back, feeling the familiar slide of silken strands against his fingers, and – feathers.

Sephiroth jerked as he brushed the underside of his wing. It was so warm and luxuriantly soft. Lazard let his fingers sink into the short, downy feathers there, and a shudder ran through the taller man. The friction that resulted from the subtle motion dragged twin groans from their throats, swallowed just as quickly by hungry mouths. Encouraged, Lazard continued to tease them gently, revelling in the reactions such a simple action caused. His other arm snaked around Sephiroth's neck, keeping the man's lips within reach of his own.

Finally, Sephiroth dragged his head up. “I want you inside of me.”

“Yes,” Lazard agreed. He let himself sink back on his heels, took a step back – and then realised there was a slight problem. “Uh, Sephiroth?”

“Yes?”

“As far as I know, the nearest lube is sitting in the top drawer of my desk.” There had been no reason for him to grab it on his way out, after all. Despite the silver-haired man's accusations, sex wasn't the only thing he ever thought about when it came to Sephiroth.

Sephiroth blinked. He slid a sidelong glance in the direction of the door – and Lazard's office – before looking back at the executive. “You had better not be about to suggest we stop,” he said flatly.

“No, no, not at all,” Lazard replied, thinking quickly. He wasn't going to do this without some form of lubricant, a discussion he'd had with Sephiroth before. He didn't like the idea of hurting his lover, even if, as Sephiroth was quick to point out, it would heal. “We'll just have to improvise.” Inspiration struck. “And I know how.”

He dropped to his knees. He'd done this less than a handful of times in the two years or so they'd been involved, as his first attempt at it had convinced him he didn't like the taste of semen at all. Although that had been rather unpleasant, he had to admit it was one of his fonder memories. Sephiroth was usually quite mellow after an orgasm, and he could still hear the odd, muffled snickers as Sephiroth tried to stifle his amusement at Lazard's expression. It was a sight – and sound – few people would ever see.

He didn't bother trying for technique or finesse. Instead, he simply closed his lips around the sensitive head of Sephiroth's cock and sucked hard.

 _“Nngh!”_ Shocked, Sephiroth almost folded in two as one hand clutched at Lazard's shoulder just a little tighter than was really comfortable. The other found its way into blond hair, and he could feel the fingers twitching, trying not to tighten their grip. “Lazard,” Sephiroth gasped.

“Hmm?” Lazard hummed, never taking his mouth away from its appointed task. There was another strangled sound from above him, and he wrapped his hand around the shaft to forestall any unexpected movements.

Sephiroth gave up on talking, making deliciously carnal sounds instead that had Lazard's cock aching for a little attention of its own. Lazard concentrated on sucking with hard, rhythmic pulls; he'd get his chance soon enough. And there was pleasure to be found in the way Sephiroth's fingers flexed in his hair, tugging just a little too hard on blond strands every now and then, pleasure in how some of those sounds edged towards helpless in a way few would ever associate with the powerful General who commanded the ranks of SOLDIER.

Then fingers tightened deliberately, pulling him back as Sephiroth gritted out, “I'm going to come.”

“Good,” Lazard replied. He jerked him off with firm strokes as his free hand came up to tease the saliva-slicked head, rubbing and squeezing until Sephiroth bucked into his grip, heated white fluid spurting over his hand.

He'd probably have bruises from the grip on his shoulder, but as Sephiroth seemed to be using it to keep himself standing he felt more smug than pained, something that crept into his smile as he told the taller man to spread his legs a little more. Sephiroth moved his feet apart, somewhat unsteadily. Leaning in to nuzzle his face in the hollow of prominent hipbone, Lazard reached around him to rub his now-slick fingers against his lover's entrance.

“Mmmmm.” The sound was somewhere between a sigh and a satisfied moan. Even if he frequently urged Lazard to skip the preliminaries, Sephiroth always seemed to enjoy this. And as those fingers dipped inside, twisting and stretching, Lazard could see that the silver-haired man's cock, which had never really softened, was once again twitching upwards. Really, he thought a little ruefully, given the General's recovery rate, excessive amounts of foreplay was the only way Lazard was ever going to keep up with him.

And it was such a pleasure to play with his body that it wasn't much of a sacrifice. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the lingering scent of leather, now mingled with sweat and sex and that strange hint of forest. His tongue flicked out to lick at a patch of skin, the salty taste helping to chase away the slightly bitter tang that lingered after his earlier attentions. It should be impossible for someone who fought for a living to have such smooth, pale skin, but he knew he'd have to search for any scars more than a week old, as they faded into silvery insignificance after that.

But the best thing of all, Lazard thought as a brush of his fingers against Sephiroth's prostate resulted in an almost convulsive movement of his lower body, was watching – feeling - that iron control waver and know that he had caused it. Heated flesh clenched tight around the questing digits before the other man let out a shuddering breath.

“Enough,” Sephiroth said roughly. “I'm ready, just... fuck me already.”

Lazard withdrew his hand, slicked some of the remaining fluids over his own cock, and considered the situation. Given the addition to Sephiroth's back, the most sensible position would probably be to take him from behind. But Lazard's knees were already killing him from kneeling too long on the hard floor, not a feeling he had the urge to share. And he wanted this to be face-to-face, a final reassurance of sorts.

Because nothing Lazard saw in Sephiroth had ever changed how much he wanted him.

He settled back on his hands and straightened his legs. “I want you to ride me.”

Sephiroth's eyes widened in surprise before narrowing thoughtfully. He licked his lips, a predatory smile forming. “Very well, then.”

Lazard bit back a hiss as he lay back. The floor was still hard, and cold besides, but it beat torturing his knees any longer. He watched as Sephiroth settled over him. It was more than a little awkward as halfway down it became apparent that the wing was in the way. Careful manoeuvring saw it stretched out to one side, extended almost as though for flight. Lazard's eyes followed it, and when he looked back, he found Sephiroth half-crouched, watching him.

“It really doesn't bother you.” It wasn't a question, but a statement.

“No.”

“Hn.” It was with considerably more grace that Sephiroth sank to his knees, crawling up Lazard's body until he straddled his waist. He reached back with one hand, and the blond strangled a moan as long fingers caressed his length before positioning him against the slicked entrance.

Brilliant green eyes held his, smug and sensual, as Sephiroth sank slowly downwards.

He couldn't smother the groan that rose in his chest as the other man took him in, right to the hilt. Lazard was certain the way that inner muscles tightened around him was deliberate, Sephiroth seeking to prove that he wasn't the only one who could tease. Resting his hands on muscled thighs, he tried to relax.

It seemed like forever before the other man moved. He rolled his hips, a long sensual movement that flowed through his entire body and pulled a gasp from parted lips. Again: rocking, swaying, languid movements that had no urgency to them. Heat and slow friction, pleasure and building desire.

With each movement, Lazard felt his own control slipping away as if it never had been. “Sephiroth,” he said, his voice a low moan.

“Yes?”

Lazard swallowed. “Touch – _ngh!_ ”

Muscles tightened around him, and he knew this time that it was deliberate. Sephiroth's voice was a dangerous purr as he leaned forward. “Touch you? My pleasure.”

Long fingers traced lightly over his skin. Callused from sword-work, they weren't as smooth and perfect as the rest of him. They slid over his stomach, trailed along the curve of his ribs, then found the flat discs of his nipples and teased them until the little nubs of flesh were hardened and sensitive. That was when Sephiroth leaned forward to take one of them between his teeth.

As pleasurable as it was, it wasn't that which made Lazard's breath catch in his throat. As Sephiroth bent his head, his hair fell around them, long silver strands that caressed skin with the faintest of touches. The great black wing stretched out behind him, above him. Hooded green eyes stared down at Lazard, slit-pupils partially dilated, smug smile curving perfect lips. Sephiroth was magnificent, exotic, and had never looked more confident in his own power.

A power that had nothing to do with physical strength or force.

Lazard's hips bucked helplessly upwards, completely undone by the sensual creature before him. “Please,” he managed on a broken gasp.

“Please what?” Sephiroth murmured as he worked his way up Lazard's throat, licked at parted lips. The blond grabbed his head in both hands, pulling him down into an openly carnal kiss that held every bit of his hunger and desperation.

When the silver-haired man finally broke the seal of their joined mouths, his own breathing was ragged. “Impatient, aren't we?” he chided, as he sat upright once again.

“One of us hasn't come yet, remember?” Lazard retorted.

“I can fix that.” Sephiroth raised himself until only the head of Lazard's cock was still inside him, then plunged downwards. He set an almost brutal pace, and Lazard wondered if he'd have bruises from the sheer force with which their bodies met. His own hips tried to buck upwards, rising to meet each downward movement, but to no avail. Sephiroth's strength greatly out-stripped his own, and all he could do was lie there and let the silver-haired man ride him to their mutual pleasure. He watched from heavy-lidded eyes, strangled sounds coming from his throat, as Sephiroth did just that.

Lazard reached out a hand to brush against hard flesh that bounced with each movement, felt it still slick with Sephiroth's previous release. He wrapped his hand around it and watched as the man slowed, made cautious in his movements. Stroking it a few times, he let it slip from his grasp and ordered roughly, “Do it. Make yourself come.”

Elegant fingers replaced his, moving up and down. Lazard rested his hands once again on Sephiroth's thighs, feeling the shift of the powerful muscles beneath his touch as his lover rode him to completion. Sephiroth's head slipped back, baring the curve of his throat, hair falling around him. To Lazard's fascination, the half-furled wing twitched with every movement, beating gently at the air until Sephiroth's body arched and it snapped open to its full extension, feathers fanning wide as he climaxed once again.

Although he tried to keep his eyes open, it was too much for Lazard. His vision flared white, and he let go.

The next thing he knew he was blinking muzzily at Sephiroth as he carefully lifted himself off, before almost collapsing at Lazard's side. “I don't want to move for a week,” the man muttered into the flesh of his shoulder, the wing settling over them like a blanket.

“Work tomorrow,” Lazard pointed out.

“Slave driver.”

He snorted. “In half an hour, you'll be fine, and probably quite happy to do it again. Sooner, even. Myself, I'm a poor _un_ -enhanced man, and I think you've killed me.”

“You talk a lot for a dead man. And this floor is uncomfortable.” But Sephiroth didn't sound very bothered by either fact.

“I know.” Lazard lifted a hand, but before he could touch it, the wing vanished in a cloud of black feathers. He caught one, staring at it in fascination.

“It's gone.” Sephiroth pushed himself up, staring at the feather Lazard held with wide eyes. “Why did it go away now?”

“I don't know.” Lazard twirled the feather thoughtfully. “Hojo upset you today. What did he say?”

Sephiroth's face shut down. “Nothing.”

“It didn't look like 'nothing'. Were you upset last time?”

“I-” Sephiroth was clearly intending to answer in the negative, but he stopped and sighed. “Yes. It was... a difficult session.”

“You're very careful around Hojo, aren't you?”

Sephiroth lay back down, a small but definite space between them. “I learned very early on that Hojo does not appreciate emotional displays. And displeasing him has unpleasant consequences.” There was a pause. “I should not have allowed myself to lose my temper with him earlier.”

Lazard wondered just what Hojo would do to make Sephiroth regret that, except there was something in the way the scientist had smirked as Sephiroth stalked away that made him wonder if provoking the General wasn't exactly what he was after. “And it didn't appear until you got back to your apartment.”

“No.”

Silence fell.

Finally Sephiroth spoke. “Do you think that's it? That it's that simple?”

“It didn't go away until you were completely relaxed. Last time, you fell asleep, and it was gone. It's just a possibility. I'm not a scientist.”

“And I'm definitely not going to ask a scientist.” Sephiroth sighed. “I just have to be even more careful.”

Lazard looked over at him. His words had sounded so tired, and the executive wondered what it would be like to spend your whole life being 'careful'.

“Well, I suppose now that it's gone, we should probably tidy ourselves up a bit and leave.” With a slight groan, he pushed his way upright. The movement made him uncomfortably aware that his chest and stomach were still rather sticky; thick, white fluid began a slow trickle downwards. He grimaced, then reached for his jacket. There was a plain white handkerchief in one pocket, which proved nearly sufficient for ridding himself of most of it. He carefully donned his shirt, hoping to keep the fabric from gluing itself to his body. “I've already taken care of the camera footage. I suppose if anyone wonders why it's missing, they'll just make an assumption based on our rather... dishevelled appearance.”

He'd meant the words to be reassuring. He'd never intended to go about flaunting his relationship with Sephiroth, but in this case, speculation about his having an affair with one of his own subordinates was far less damaging than the truth. And Sephiroth had a tendency to make him change his plans.

But the sounds of movement behind him stopped abruptly, replaced by a tense silence. He turned to find Sephiroth watching him with sombre eyes.

“You wanted to know what Hojo said to upset me,” Sephiroth said. “He asked me about you.”

Wordlessly, Lazard crossed the distance between them and kissed him, lips brushing softly against each other. “It will be all right,” he insisted, with an assurance he didn't necessarily feel. “Whatever happens, we'll deal with it.”

When the time came and he took down his father's empire, Lazard promised silently, Hojo would be the first to go.


End file.
